Absit Omen RPG

6 Sept 2022
7:15am on a Thursday
#5C Burgoyne Burbidges Lofts
Figaro Sellaphix's flat

Figaro alit on the roof of the magically concealed converted factory at a hasty clip, hitting the tar at a jog. He continued this hurried pace to his apartment on the fifth floor where he flung open the door, slammed it behind him and threw his old broom across the room. He was on the edge of angry, embarrassed, confused tears.

He was hard-pressed to think of a time he'd felt this torn apart. He'd been angry before, he'd been afraid, he'd been sorrowful, he'd even been heart-broken, but this bizarre mix of them all, it was more than the young wizard knew how to swallow.

Her laugh rang in his ears, mirthful and mean. She'd hadn't used the word, but the look was pity. It was unbearable. Figaro moved around the small messy space, unsure what to do with his hands. He alternated between aggressively rubbing at his face and hair. He checked the icebox and closed it again, rummaged through the cupboards. Then he decided all in a hurry to shower. He peeled off his clothes, the ones he'd chosen yesterday morning, the ones he'd taken off last night, and put on again this morning from Wilhemena's posh white rug. He left them in a trail behind him and got into the shower before the water was even hot.

It did something to sooth the anxious need in his hands and throat and face. The emotion made his skin ache, the pressure of holding in ugly sobs needed an outlet and the cold (and warming) shower did the trick.

Figaro leaned against the wall of the small cubicle and slid down to sad sitting; he was not unaware he was the picture of a scene in a movie. For some reason, this comforted him. He was sad, he was pathetic and crying in the shower was the only thing that felt right. The violence of Figaro Sellaphix began and ended at throwing brooms at fireplaces. The ability to think rationally in the face of humiliating heartbreak extended about that far as well.

He sat there for a long time until he got tired, until he couldn't run the events of the morning over and over in his head.

He'd said something about the future, too far in the future. She'd laughed, turned cold, and shoo'd him away with a sniff and that look. She'd looked inconvenienced. She'd looked annoyed.

Figaro tried to look like he didn't see a witch transforming into a cat in the middle of the night in broad London. If any of the very few other people on the street saw, they made no indication - Gris had been surprisingly subtle. Figaro would have to re-address his assumptions about her, well, talent. She wasn't at all wrong. Despite what his mum said, the Aurors didn't take just anybody. Gris clearly knew a spell or two and how to use them.

It was a strange feeling, to see a cat or dog[1] and not want to pat it. He put his hands in his armpits to secure his decision not to stroke Gris Hericho from ears to tail. Good Merlin, what was his life sometimes?

Gris's animagus from was impressive. Grey (like gris), fluffly with subtle striping, and much larger than an ordinary cat. Her tail was very fluffy.

Conscious that he was now a solitary young man walking alone without a proper coat following after a large cat, Figaro decided it wouldn't be much more conspicuous to chat with her.

"Moira McBoid," he said conversationally, "she can do wolf. And Raine Almasy's some kind of wildcat. Do you remember Waverly? Apparently she's a cat or something, too, but I've never seen it."

It was just then that a big black raven cackled at Figaro from the top of a sign. It was Trouble and she didn't seem pleased to see Figaro conversing so familiarly with another city creature.

"Oh, come off. She's just a friend. Want some cheese?"

1.	21 Oct 2011 - Damp But Not Diminished, where Moira shows Figaro her wolf animagus form

Figaro barked a single laugh in exasperation at Gris's request for a pet name. "Nothing! Nicknames have to be ... organic."

Gris had always been strange, but even unflappable Figaro Sellaphix was finding himself off-put by her individual attention. Strange as well was her plan. Honestly, it wasn't the plan itself that seemed undoable. In fact, it was the kind of shit he'd try with Bevans or Atwood. If he'd had the idea himself, (and they weren't on the outs), he'd have dragged Moira McBoid along on such a caper. But Gris? The Auror-in-Training Gris? The same Gris who despite holding off on trying to flirt with him still seemed strangely intent on his friendship? It seemed an unusual risk.

"Wait, since when did you figure out Animagus? Doesn't that take months, and, you know, talent?" Fig hadn't meant to be snarky about it, but Gris hadn't exactly been a star student.

7 April 2021
8pm, Saturday
Provisions restaurant
Marylebone, London

Figaro Sellaphix waited under the awning at Provisions, a posh London restaurant. He'd come ten minutes ago to ensure he'd arrive before Wilhemena. Occasionally, the doors would open and he'd hear the gentle sounds of the experience inside. Music, the clinking of silverwear. He wore the suit[1] Virgil Carstairs had chosen for him two nights ago, as to comply with Wilhemena's directions.[2] It was dark blue, impeccably sized for him, and accessorized with silver. A purple flower was on his lapel. He'd done nothing special with his dark blonde hair. He instinctivly knew that one thing Wilhemena liked about him was his youth and youthful faux pas - he had to come slightly undone.

Presently, a black taxi arrived and Figaro quickly extinguished the cigarette he'd bummed from the man at the door. Fig didn't smoke as a habit, but this evening he aimed to calm his nerves. The doorman was quicker on the take than Figaro to move forward and help Wilhemena out of the cab. Wilhemena and sparkling. Pale skin, platinum blonde hair dressed in a chin-length wavy bob, and all in gold.[3] Figaro put his hand behind his head and bit his lip as he approached, utterly taken in. Her smile was only in her eyes as she let Figaro take her hand. She loved that shit.

"Hi," he said. "You look amazing."

She touched on the knot of his purple necktie and made an approving tisk. She was satisfied with his outsourced effort; she might have even been surprised. Wilhemena knew that he must have got help - and savvy help at that. The look was young and expensive. She moved her hand from her tie to his cheek and gave it a little pat.

"Oh, don't."

Wilhemena was the spokeswitch for the Werewolf Wing of the Ministry of Magic, an accomplished and always put-together witch. Her love life was defined by its complexity; she knew exactly what she was doing, scooping up a much younger thing like the work-in-progress Figaro Sellaphix. He was charming and utterly grateful to have her, in so much as she allowed it. She'd plucked him up and cleaned him off in defiance of anyone who expected a witch in her mid-thirties to settle down. At her day job, she cleaned up scandals. At her side hustle, she flirted with them.

---

Later.

The server had cleared their dinner plates away and Figaro was bragging. Wilhemena watched his mouth and his hands as he told some story about having met a terrorist. His heavily diluted Mancusian accent was informal and wandering. He smiled a lot and smiled more when he caught Wil looking at him.

"What?" Figaro stopped and asked.

He'd caught her staring. She sipped from her cocktail. "It's nothing. Go on. How did you get back?"

Figaro's story didn't make much sense to her, but he had an absurd dry sense of humor she liked.

"Floo." Figaro shrugged and left it there, now aware he'd been doing all the talking. To keep himself from saying more, he reached for his drink, something dark and peaty in a short glass.

"You must have been frightened," Wil said, propping up her chin in her palm.

"Shat myself, yeah."

Wilhemena made a sour face at the vulgarity.

Figaro apologized, his eyebrows giving away insincerity. Wil caught on to the cheek and smirked at him. One corner of her mouth showed her own lack of committment to her scolding.

The server returned and offered them desert, or perhaps something more from the bar. Wilhemena declined on their behalf and passed over a muggle credit card. Figaro finished his drink in one.

---

M: sexual scenario

Much later.

Figaro lay in Wilhemena's big soft bed. About twelve pillows were scattered on the floors nearby, unnecesseary in shape and number. She had two nightstands even though she lived alone. He was naked and warm. His neck was wet with sweat. Wilhemena and her impossible smoothness was sitting on the edge of the bed, her bare back to him. Her hair was now a wild halo, careful curls all akimbo.

"Go again...?" he asked sweetly.

She looked over her shoulder like she was posing for a photo.

"Not tonight. It's time for you," she stood up, taking a bedsheet with her, "to go home."

As she turned, she pulled the sheet around her expertly. She proceeded around the bed towards the loo slowly, keeping a watchful eye on Figaro who tracked her as well. He sat up in bed, not bothering to perform the same modesty.

"Come one, didn't you like it?" he coaxed her. "I'll do the thing again."

Wil laughed brightly, genuinely. Her nose wrinkled. "No, no. No, you go now. You go home."

She'd made it to the bathroom door and switched on the light, the yellow glow changing the color of the bedroom from cool to warm. She was lit up from behind and Figaro groaned in protest.

"Go!" she insisted. "Or I won't have you back."

Figaro aped her mannerism as he moved to comply. Wil's gaze fell on the chair where most of Figaro's clothes had landed.

"Don't forget the tie," she said, then disappeared into the bathroom for a shower. Figaro would be gone well before she returned.

1.	5 Apr 2012 - Extraordinarily Nice, The outfit, designed by Nuri.
2.	5 Apr 2012 - A Little Snack, As a Treat
3.	Wilhemena's outfit

Where Figaro currently shopped was a separate question from where he intended to shop. He picked up clothing here and there, as needed, or to commemorate attending a concert or Quidditch match. Second-hand shopping was a laugh to do with friends. (Notably, too, he had a pair of bright read trousers from the Ministry of Magic medic's lost-and-found.) And most of the rest of his clothes that still fit him were what his parents had provided him.

"I was going to wing it, but if you truly don't mind," Figaro said with a shrug. If Virgil was happy to continue on in this manner for awhile, Figaro was as well. And, if Figaro knew Virg, he knew that he'd not hold back if he was unhappy with the arrangement. Fig zipped up the garment bag and made ready to go.

"Can't imagine he'd put you out over it," Figaro said regarding Cepheus' magical multi-use fur-lined leather coat. Virgil seeing stars, it was a slightly new look for him in Figaro's eyes. He seemed happy. Vulnerable, even.

"That's it. I'll drop this back next week. Tell you what she thought of it."

Figaro was pleased to have someone in on this escapade.

Fig accepted the joint, taking a single puff before handing it back. He rarely smoked but didn't mind it occasionally. The greenish smoke poured out of his mouth and nose as he answered, his voice coming out a little hoarse.

"Oh, sure. Long as it lasts," he said of the sneaking around. "I'm shit at secrets."

Notoriously. Outing werewolves, blabbing family secrets, singing songs to Aurors. Figaro didn't have a reputation of insightful self-knowledge, but he was more savvy of himself than people gave him credit for. It didn't always result in him making popular choices, but he did mostly know what he was about.

There was a garment bag waiting, hanging from the wardrobe, and Figaro began conscientiously packing up the suit, setting the flower carefully aside. Wil was going to be pleased and it sent a jolt of anticipation through him. She was pleased when he followed directions, and just as pleased to find something to fix.

"I won't carry on wearing your clothes forever," Figaro assured him. "I just got paid and full moon's tomorrow." (Safe-house attendants were reimbursed generously for a job no one wanted.) He figured he head to the shops and felt, perhaps mistakenly, he could manage roughly duplicating what Virgil had dressed him in so far.

Gris offered to pay the 89p and Figaro didn't argue. He had as much to pay her back in his flat, if it ever seemed like he ought to. Figaro had never had a reason to learn to use muggle money, not until he was briefly mentored by an Auror. [nb]Adon Eleor did his best to take Figaro under his wing when Fig was in his fourth and fifth years.[/fn] Now that he lived on his own, there was more need. There were more muggle-world options and wizarding for take-away and delivery in his area in Barking.

And she called him 'Figgy' again. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. Figaro, Fig, sprog, barbero he tolerated. But 'Figgy' made him sound like sound like a sickly sweet Christmas pudding.

Gris paid and they headed out into the night once more.

"Calling me 'Figgy' again - about as much as I should expect from an Auror," he said. There were fewer worse occupations in Figaro's house. Fig had been skeptical of his parents' hostility towards Level Two, but Gris's entitlement to his name - it was rubbing him wrong tonight for some reason.

"And I meant, how are you going to get behind the counter?" They were heading towards a late-night chip shop, now. Figaro had torn into the cheese package and peeling off floppy string cheese from the main stalk like he was a kid again. His drinks were wearing off after the walk and the chill was setting in.

Fig was satisfied with Virgil's evaluation. He checked himself out in the mirror again and tried the one-pocket thing. It felt awkward but looked more sophisticated. The little things mattered. Virgil made a comment and Fig looked back at him over his shoulder. He clicked his tongue and winked rakishly.

With a final nod at the look, he began undressing so it could be bagged up like the other outfits he'd borrowed. Shoes, socks. He was careful with the tie so he wouldn't have to attempt Virgil's special knot.

"First one wasn't a date so much as she ordered me to her flat to 'fix her cauldron'," he said, gesturing with one hand the implied air quotes. "Flirted with me then tossed me out when I flirted back. She ended up buying a cauldron off me, though?"

It had been weird. He'd told his parents the cauldron was for him.

"I delivered it, she came on to me. I went with it. Thought it was a one-time thing, but I brought her tea at work. She pretended like she didn't know me, then was like, pick me up at eight."

By now he'd laid the jacket out on the bed, and took off the shirt after undoing the first few buttons. After he put his own top back on (a Falcons jersey), he pulled off the trousers. His own (charcoal jeans) were in a pile on the floor.

"I wanted to go to Calaveras, but she wanted to go to a muggle place. I mean, whatever she wants, right?" He shrugged happily. "Sex at her place after. That's how it's been going. Nice muggle restaurant, she pays, then her place."

Trousers up, belt fastened, he sat on the bed to do up his trainers. "I mean, she wants to keep it a secret, and I'm not going to argue it. It's fun."

It was all just that - weird and fun. Virgil's reaction to the implied age gap had done good to Figaro questioning the taboo of it, though.

If Figaro thought he'd been subtle about the identity of his keeper, Virgil was too perceptive for him. He grinned again, as he had been all day. This smile should be enough to confirm Virgil's informed guesses. Wilhemena was in her thirties, Figaro estimated. He'd never asked, obviously, and she hadn't said. She was mature, accomplished, and needed absolutely nothing from him; it was all about 'want with Wil.

Dating the head of Beings, though.

"Damn, mate. Practically the Minister of Magic," Figaro said and took a turn around Virgil's quarters. He stuck his hands in the trouser pockets, certain it was the wrong thing to do, but having no better ideas.

Virgil Figaro could see with an older man. It had been harder for Figaro to guess he'd himself be attracted to older women, but it had started to make sense. (Whatever that had been with Queen G, for example, now had context.) If Virgil found it all sane and normal, then Figaro was content not to worry about the imbalanced in the relationship. Playing in the same league as Virgil was enviable, to be honest.

He paused by the door, took a contrapposto stance and put his hand to the tie. He could feel it, now, what Virgil had said about power and confidence. He allowed Virgil his camp, calling him a pretty young thing. Wil hadn't used those words exactly, but the way she patted his cheek when she was sizing him up - that was the implication.

"Yeah?" He sought Virgil's approval.

"Who's Cepheus?" Figaro didn't know anyone by the name, which meant he likely hadn't been in school with them. Figaro was just one of those people who'd known everyone in most years, even if he hadn't actually known them. If he hadn't gone to school with them, he could be a muggle, from abroad, or much older. He realized with Virgil, it could be any or all of these. Hearing Virgil talk about it, Figaro marveled at how attentive he must be. It tracked, how generous he was with even his dopiest, most clueless friends.

Figaro probably snapped to attention a bit too quickly at the word 'werewolf' but he caught himself.

"No."

Wilhemena was only spokeswitch for the entire Werewolf Wing. He held out his hands so Virgil could slip in the cufflinks, a task Figaro could have managed.

"A comb set. Cologne. Really expensive, I think. She pays for everything."

Figaro wasn't exactly sure how he felt about that. He'd tried to pay once and had been so thoroughly chastised, he hadn't tried again. And all the better - Wilhemena's tastes far exceeded Figaro's means. He'd not be shy to admit he didn't find it thrilling to playact, but he felt more like an escort than a boyfriend sometime. Wait.

"Is that strange?"

Good - he'd been right about the empty front pocket, and continued to accept Virgil's deft riffing on the theme. Figaro couldn't guess at what further opportunities there were to accessorize now, beyond a handkerchief and flower, but he had no reason to rush out the door.

"No, no flowers yet," he admitted, still looking at himself in the mirror. "I wouldn't know what kind, anyway. Honestly, she seems to like it when I fuck up. I don't get it. She gets all cross with me, and - yeah, no on the flowers."

He was grinning again.

"You have a boyfriend right now?" Figaro found himself asking. It had been Anton Schäfer at New Years months ago[1], but Figaro thought he'd heard that was done with. Virgil just didn't seem like the sort to be alone, even when he was alone.

"Does he expect flowers? Do you expect flowers?" Figaro looked around, clocking now, the obvious clues that Virgil did, indeed, have loads of flowers.

"Well, right, I see them now." He gestured and laughed.

1.	31 Dec 2012 - We Are Young

Figaro watched for the short moment that Virgil seemed to draw up something private in his minds eye, and found the other boy odd for it.

"She's blonde," Figaro replied, calling to mind Wilhemena's wavy ice-blonde bob. He sat back down on the edge of the bed to get the shoes on to complete the look, to see if it would all together pass muster. If it got past Virgil, Wil would be satisfied. Satisfied with the clothes, at least.

It wasn't often that Figaro blushed, but he did then, at Virgil's interpretation of the tea leaves. Figaro was an open book most of the time, easily written and easily read, and shameless said many. All of his past relationships at school had been either horny friendships, enemies with broom closet benefits,  or the personification of hand-on-her-hip awkward school dances. Even his fireworks-ride on-and-off relationship with Sophie Flickwick, who he'd once imagined he'd marry, with its violence and bossing around seemed really childish now. It was coming up on a year out of school and it was like life had finally started. He was constantly distracted these days.

"I get the O for effort," Figaro shrugged. He was unable to wipe off that grin. The sex with Wil was amazing. Always her place, never breakfast.

The shoes were on now, and he stood back up for the mirror again. Fasten jacket button, pull on the shirt cuffs, adjust the eye-glasses. Without the purple socks showing, the tie made more sense.

"Something for the pocket?" he asked.

"Oh, it's all her idea," Figaro replied. He had managed to keep secret the identity of his lover. Few were asking, but some who'd noticed him acting differently had urged him for an answer. He'd evaded successfully so far, but mostly because Wil was far outside of his friends' and family circles. Personally, he'd have a laugh people knowing, but Wil preferred sneaking around. It seemed to make it more exciting for her and Fig got an immense amount of satisfaction doing what she asked.

Fig tore himself from the mirror to try the shoes, following Virgil's instructions about the jacket button with passable skill. He sat on the edge of the bed, shoe in hand. He stared at it a moment - hard-soled, stiff leather upper, stringy laces - there was nothing remotely easy about them. But he set about trying them on anyway.

He grinned knowingly when Virgil asked about Wil's fashion choices. "Like she doesn't know that the restaurant is going to be cold."

Bare shoulders, loose satins, straight-line shapes, sparkly jewelry, red lip - romantic and dramatic. Figaro didn't have a strong garment vocabulary though.

"Fancy but simple," he tried. "Last time it was this black silky dress. Just plain black. And this necklace, diamonds maybe? Giant, right. And this little furry cape thing. What are those called?"

Figaro put the shoe down so he could sort of draw his arms around his shoulders, modeling the invisible garment, a shrug probably. "Served absolutely no purpose. Just like, hugging herself with it."

He didn't seem critical at all. Wilhemena was utterly out of his league and could wear whatever useless garment she wanted.

Figaro was comfortable with Virgil's closeness, if not a little irritated he'd unceremoniously redone his perfectly fine job on the tie. He wasn't either bothered by being scolded about shoes, but Virgil's earnestness about the meaning of a good suit and the power of confidence made Figaro smile. Fig did like the way Wil looked at him when he dressed, the way she drank him in, and how that made Figaro feel lucky.

Virgil was taking this all very seriously. Figaro was motivated on some level not to disappoint Virgil, but on another level, sincerity was vulnerability and it was difficult not to tease. He let Virgil's profundity hang in the air for a moment, then responded.

"It looks exactly the same," Figaro said, looking past Virgil to the mirror and reaching up for the tie again.

 He was still grinning at the mirror, beginning to daydream.